Monday, 7 January 2013

She wasn't mad: she was Annabelle. 

She trusted no one and sometimes she talked to animals. 'Please fuck me the fuck out of this fucking life,' she said to next doors' cat. He winked at her.
Yawn, her secrets were nothing; just hiccups in the enormous everything.
She wore a blue school uniform and on the end of the pier the sea swallowed her. 
When she looked out from her bedroom window, over the City at nighttime, cars holding unknown numbers of human beings, at least one of whom would also probably, almost definitely, be called Annabelle Sinclair, skittered past to somewhere that she would never go. Kaleidoscope's in brown and orange, other dimensions and unimaginable, shit.
She liked to drink cherryade and also coke; like most of the kids in her class.
Annabelle felt insignificant.
The sky-line began to twist into the red phlegmish veins of the new day. 
Annabelle stood perfectly still.
Annabelle, Anna, Annabelle.
'I am not real,' she said.
She did not shiver because she was not cold.
She thought of Igor because he was there and so was she.
That was the way it was.
Behind her the fairground rides started to sing and jog in dots along their convulsing melodies. 
She watched her shoes floating on their cork soles across the feeble little shark finned waves and touched her stomach. 

In the house Annabelle and Igor's mother pulled hairs out of an old hairbrush, one by one. Their father masturbated in the shower and then cried sliding down the wall and removing little avenues of limescale with his enormous back.
Annabelle's coat twisted on the sand at the bottom of the ocean.
She wondered how she would die.


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